


because it doth remove / Those things which elemented it.

by comtessedebussy



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, Devotion, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, James/OMC (brief), Literary References & Allusions, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Praise, Reunion, Shame, Shameless Thomas Hamilton, love poetry, soft boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24033571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comtessedebussy/pseuds/comtessedebussy
Summary: “What’s this?” James asks. He’s lifted a map off Thomas desk, and below is a neat pile of papers in Thomas’ handwriting. A quick glance reveals that they’re poems, full of inkblots and crossings out, some more legible than others – James knows how Thomas begins to scribble when he gets excited.They’re breathtakingly beautiful - as Thomas’ words always are, as everything about him is. But thy are different, too; the previous poems James has read had been full of wit, clever turns of phrase, puns, and double entendres, just like his arguments. But these – they’re love poems. Written with passion and adoration, the force of it evident in every stroke of the pen, every word.“They’re addressed to a man,” he points out the obvious.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 17
Kudos: 191





	because it doth remove / Those things which elemented it.

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been sitting in my wips, 99% finished, for about two years. I decided it was time to stop being a perfectionist and put it up. The fandom may well be dead by now, I dunno, but I felt that this fic should exist in the world regardless. 
> 
> Title from John Donne: 
> 
> Dull sublunary lovers' love  
> (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit  
> Absence, because it doth remove  
> Those things which elemented it.

“What’s this?” James asks. He’s lifted a map off Thomas desk, and below is a neat pile of papers in Thomas’ handwriting. A quick glance reveals that they’re poems, full of inkblots and crossings out, some more legible than others – James knows how Thomas begins to scribble when he gets excited.

Poetry is often passed around Thomas’ salons – it is not the custom of the day to publish, and so manuscripts are exchanged instead. James has chanced to read some of Thomas’ poetry before, but he doesn’t think he’s seen these particular ones before.

“May I?” he asks.

Thomas nods, and James begins to devour the words.

They’re breathtakingly beautiful - as Thomas’ words always are, as everything about him is. But thy are different, too; the previous poems James has read had been full of wit, clever turns of phrase, puns, and double entendres, just like his arguments. But these – they’re love poems. Written with passion and adoration, the force of it evident in every stroke of the pen, every word.

“They’re addressed to a man,” he points out the obvious. “I did not know you were drawn to men.” That knowledge brings him little joy. Before, he had never dared even hope that Thomas preferred the company of his own sex. He had wanted and longed, but always hopelessly. And here, to find out that the desire James found so shameful, Thomas shared it – but that it was not for him, that it was for another, infinitely more beautiful and beloved.

“I am,” Thomas admits. “I thought I might follow in the spirit of Shakespeare, and of the Greeks, but infused with the style of John Donne,” Thomas says. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” James says. It is not the fact that Thomas likes _men_ that bothers him. “Not at all.”

“They are – very powerful,” he manages. “Written from the heart.” For all Thomas says of imitating the style of the great poets, these words cannot have been penned without love behind them.

“They are,” Thomas admits. He colors slightly, for perhaps the first time since James has known him. He has rarely known Thomas to be ashamed or embarrassed. James feels a pang in his heart.

Thomas seems to be looking at him expectantly, but he does not know what else to say, so he turns their attention back to their work. Thomas does not protest, and they pore over a map of Nassau, then a larger one of the Caribbean. They part late into the night, and he has to catch himself before he addresses Thomas as _my lord._ “Good night, Thomas,” he says, but the intimacy of the name pains him. He hopes it does not show too much on his face.

When he returns to his chambers – cold and dark – he finds he cannot sleep. He sees the words, seared with fire into the back of his eyelids every time he closes his eyes.

They are so beautiful that James wants to weep. They have the usual clichés – Thomas’ lover has sun-kissed skin, and fire-kissed hair, and honeyed words upon his lips. But Thomas has transformed them into something pure, the alchemy of his love making gold out of the black ink.

Had they been written by another, James would love those words for their beauty. His lengthy adorations – of the way his lover’s skin maps the heavens and guides him when he is lost, of the fire in his eyes that shines like the guiding light of the North Star – would find a place, lovingly bound, on his shelf.

But, written by Thomas, they break him.

He cannot even close his eyes and pretend they are written to him – blasphemous as that would be, for how dare he take that pure love Thomas feels, and turn it on himself, when it is so clearly not for him?

He knows the tradition these poems are written in; has read John Donne, Petrarchan sonnets and Shakespeare’s, some of the Platonic dialogues even, had heard them debated at Thomas’ salons. It is the tradition of writing poetry to a beloved ideal, the love of which elevates the lover, for it is love of the good. Thomas had verbally eviscerated just last week a man who suggested there was irony in the tradition. “The love of an earthly thing, however pure, cannot elevate one or allow one’s soul to transcend,” the man had insisted. Thomas had strolled casual circles around the man’s arguments.

But he is no ideal. No Greek god, built of lovely turns of phrase. No, his skin is weather-worn, beaten by the winds and the spray of the sea, not sun-kissed. His body – which Thomas has hardly seen, in any case – is covered entirely in freckles, ugly things that mar what could have been a fine physique. There is nothing celestial in them, certainly no map of the heavens.

As for his soul, it may not be the ugly thing his body is, is likely not any worse than most of other men, but it is certainly no lofty ideal.

……

After that, the question of who Thomas’ beloved is plagues him. It is not his secret to discover, but he burns with the need to know who for Thomas represents the good, the pure, the transcendent. What does this man look like, who walks but does not tread upon the ground?

He attends Thomas’ salons and searches with his eyes, but he cannot discern who has fiery hair beneath the pompous wigs that Thomas’ equals wear. No one’s words sound to him particularly honeyed, besides Thomas’, but he will admit he is prejudiced in the matter. For all of the poems’ verbosity, they offer few actual descriptions; they soar to the heights of metaphor, but offer no guidance, for who but a lover can see read the starmap on their beloved’s skin or follow the North Star that shines in their eyes?

He finds himself watching Thomas, trying to discern whom his eyes might fall upon, but they rest on no one in particular. They are attentive to whoever is speaking, and he is passionate as usual in his persuasiveness, dancing playfully from side to side of arguments, playing devil’s advocate, but there are no lingering, longing glances.

He could likely ask Miranda, for she would know. She might even tell him, but he tells himself that it is not his secret to ask for. And perhaps he does not want to face the knowing, pitying look in her eyes when he asks.

…..

James stands out in the molly-house. He could have found himself a man in a tavern or on the streets, taken him back to a private room somewhere, but those were often less private than they seemed. Molly-houses were safer, and James might be madly in love, but he hadn’t lost all of his senses yet.

He stands back and watches patiently. Most of the men who frequent a molly house are of a certain type – their attire pushing beyond elegance to what James thought of as foppishness. Many wear powder and wigs and jewels. Among them, he stands out. He’s not wearing his Navy uniform, but has instead donned simple attire, tight enough against his body to suggest hard-earned strength.

He knows he stands out, and he counts on that to attract the kind of man he wants. Which it does. The man is James’ height, broad-shouldered- just as James likes them. He looks to be of similar strength, though it is not always strength that matters in a match between two men.

Their eyes meet, and the man approaches. They waste no time on flirtatious formalities; there is but the exchange of names – the other man is “Will,” at which James snorts in amusement.

“I want you to force me,” James makes himself say.

The man rakes his eyes over James with newfound appreciation, nods in acquiescence, and gestures towards the door. They make their way into the back room, and whoever had thought to call it a chapel, James thought, had either had a wicked sense of humor or no sense of shamed.

The place is dimly lit, yet bright enough for him to make out both the figures and the acts. Men, in various states of undress, some performing, others watching. Their eyes flit to James and Will, whose tall, masculine forms and plain attire stand out.

Will does not waste time and forces James against the wall. James could easily fight him off, but this is, after all, the reason he came here. Instead, he opens his mouth for Will to force his tongue into, submits to his teeth leaving angry blooming marks upon his neck.

Will shoves him to the floor, so hard he feels the impact reverberate through his entire body, like a plucked string. He feels eyes on him as he parts his lips for Will to slide his cock into James’ mouth none too gently.

He aches to touch himself, but knows that if he does, he will hardly last. More than that, he wants to feels his need until it makes him ache, experience the entirety of it, sharp and keen, until it drowns him and drags him to the depths.

Will uses him; every thrust of his hips forces his cock into James’ mouth as if he were mere orifice, and the degradation sends hot waves of arousal through him. More eyes watch them now, each gaze bearing down with the same strength Will pours into his movements; they are on display like this, a pantomime of shame that heightens his arousal.

Will quickens his thrusts, and his breaths come in a staccato now. James moves to pull away, but a hand tangles in his hair, keeping him in place.

“Don’t worry,” Will sneers. “I’ll make sure you get all the cock that you can take.”

Arousal, hot and heavy, crests over him. The next moment, Will’s climax is in his mouth, on his tongue and down his throat. He had no particular fondness for the taste, but it does not disgust him as it should. It is familiar, a reminder of his preference for unnatural things, for allowing another man to put his cock where it was not meant to go. 

He swallows, coughing, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve as Will withdraws.

He stands and strips before Will can tell him to. Force he desires, but he draws the line at submission.

Will follows suit, shucking his own clothes. Wordlessly, he pushes James towards one of the several pieces of furniture scattered around – something between a desk and a headboard, though its particular use in this moment lies simply in the fact that it’s as tall as his hips. He bends over.

“Spread your legs,” Will says none too gently behind him. _Like a whore_ is unmistakable though unspoken, and it makes James’ cock pulse. He complies.

Another benefit to using the molly-house is the abundance of lubrication. Will’s fingers, slick with it, thrust in, one followed immediately by the second. He does not so much prepare James as forces him open. It hurts, not so much the pain itself but the shock of it, a third and then fourth finger thrusting into him without ceremony, eager to proceed. Each jolt of pain is also one of _need,_ his cock begging for a touch that he denies it still.

The bruises do not fade for two weeks. He sees them upon his wrists as he undresses every night, catches glimpses of them in the mirror. They grace his skin as he rolls up his sleeves to write. Sometimes he digs his thumb into one, for the reminder the jolt of pain sends through him reminder - that _this_ is what is for him.

That Thomas Hamilton is not for him. 

….

It is not the suffering itself he minds. It is the fact that it is not _for_ something. Gladly would he suffer _for_ Thomas, earn his beloved’s happiness with his own sacrifice. He has given his heart long ago, and if Thomas needed his body or his soul, he would give it. But it is useless, this devotion that has no end, the object of which has no need for it. Thomas is no pagan god, who needs devotion to survive, and James’ love does him as much good as a sail on dry land.

He wonders if Thomas is happy. Surely a man must be mad not to return Thomas’ love, to reject those words, so lovingly poured out of his soul. Yet Thomas seems sad. It is hidden well, for Thomas is bright as the sun, his eyes always alight, a smile lingering on his lips. The storm clouds do not hang often over him. But every once in a while, when James enters, he finds Thomas staring into the distance, his eyes dull and sad before they light on him with a smile.

James wishes he could chase away those clouds forever, efface the sadness from Thomas’ soul completely. But it is not within his power. He can give Thomas his own heart; he can hardly offer up another’s.

He wonders if he would, were it possible. It would kill him, he thinks, to see Thomas with another, but then at least his love could offer Thomas happiness. He would gladly carve out another’s heart to present it on a silver platter, and then his own love would not be the useless thing it is now, curled in his chest, clawing at his insides for lack of anything better to do.

But that is not how Thomas would want it; Thomas, who never makes a demand when he can make a request, he would never take what was not willingly given, and so James finds he has nothing to offer.

…….

Alfred Hamilton comes to dinner. His soul is as twisted and gnarled as his face, and he throws crude insults at Thomas and Miranda, and the thing curled in his chest roars to life.

“I support it,” he says. “I find his intent to be good and true, and I find yours wanting.”

It is a mindless, mad thing to do, but the same sadness flickers in Thomas’ eyes as his father chides him that James has seen throughout the last few weeks. Thomas needs to know that he is _loved._ If there is a man out there mad enough to reject the love of Thomas Hamilton – just as there is a father mad enough to reject his son – then for once James’ love can do something useful, can show Thomas that he is _good._

“You are a good man,” he says. “More people should say that, and someone should be willing to defend it.”

Thomas approaches, and James faces him with all the bravery he can muster. He realizes what he has done is utterly silly, completely useless; he has thrown away his career, perhaps, and any chance of success he has had in insulting a Lord from the House of Lords. But the man had tainted Thomas’ honor, and he spoke before he could think.

Yet now he has revealed his heart and soul, widened the rift between Thomas and his father, endangered them all with his reckless words, and surely Thomas will chide him for it. But he will face that, as he has faced storms and sea battles, and he will survive it.

But Thomas merely gazes into his eyes, his own full of hope and sadness. He leans forward, and James leans back, because he has already bared his heart, and he cannot, _cannot,_ allow Thomas to think that he _expects_ anything, that he misinterprets the movement out of foolish hope. And Thomas stills, but gazes still into James’ eyes, and then his eyes flicker to James’ lips, and for all of James’ doubts, Thomas’ intent could not be clearer.

He leans forward and allows Thomas Hamilton to kiss him. Thoughts and attempts at explanations flicker through his mind; Thomas’ heart belongs to another, and yet here he is, offering James a kiss, and James thinks he would be mad not to accept it. He cannot fathom the how or why of this unhoped-for chance, but Thomas’ lips are on his own, and in that moment, nothing else matters. He surrenders to the kiss.

The thought does not come until later that with this kiss Thomas may perhaps be betraying another lover, that James is the reason for it…But for now, he sinks into the kiss as into the waters of a warm summer lake, and basks in its sunlight. His hands come up to hold the precious thing before him.

After they break apart, James feels the kiss on his lips for a long time to come. He remembers it as he stands alongside Thomas, who speaks to his salon of so-called enlightened men. It is what carries him through the whole tedious affair, watching them walk out one by one, the introduction with Peter Ashe, the plans they make.

Finally, they all leave. Miranda is last to do so, smiling knowingly as she closes the door behind them, leaving them alone.

He stands, watching the fire, unable to meet Thomas’ eyes.

“James,” Thomas says softly. “If I have misunderstood your intent, if there is ought I can make right, I would.”

James opens his mouth helplessly, but no words come out, for he does not know how to answer Thomas’ question. Anything and everything that is wrong lies in James’ desires, and not in anything Thomas has _done._

“Tell me,” Thomas urges him. “What is it?”

“What of the other?” James asks curtly.

Thomas’ brows draw together in obvious confusion. 

“What other?” he asks.

“The one you love. The one you wrote those poems to.”

Thomas stares at him in apparent bafflement for several seconds before he manages to speak.

“James, I wrote those poems to you. I wrote them _about you,_ ” he says.

It is James’ turn to stare, bewildered. He gapes at Thomas as if he’s sprouted a second head.

“You can’t have, I’m not- ” he insists. “I don’t have the sea in my eyes, or fire-kissed hair, or- or – “ he trails off, gesturing helplessly at himself.

“Oh _James,_ ” Thomas says. “You truly did not realize?”

James shakes his head, wary and unbelieving, for in that moment, all his dreams come true, and such things do not happen to men like him.

“After you read them, you became distant,” Thomas confesses, “I assumed you understood their meaning, but did not reciprocate the feeling, and I accepted that, for I still had your friendship. But you thought there was another.” He pauses as the realization hits him. “You thought I _loved_ another.”

James nods numbly.

“And yet,” Thomas says in apparent awe, “you defended me against my father tonight, endangered your career and your very life, perhaps, even though you thought there was no hope for you?”

“He hurt you. I had to protect you, to show you that there was someone in this world who cared for you.”

“Oh James,” Thomas says again. He approaches, stands close as they had been, chest to chest, but does not lean for a kiss. Instead, he runs a hand through James’ russet locks, pulling them free of their tie to spill in a cascade over his shoulders.

“When the fire catches upon your hair, it sets it aflame, more incandescent than any sunset I’ve ever seen,” Thomas says. “And your eyes – they are green as the sea, and equally full of hidden depths, if you know how to look. Eyes are windows to your soul, and yours is a beautiful, complicated thing.”

James swallows. He does not quite know what to say, but Thomas’ thumb glides softly over his cheek as he speaks, equally soft, and James realizes he does not have to say anything. He can simply melt into this touch and bask in it, freely, for once, instead of the surreptitious brush of fingers it had been for so long. He closes his eyes at the touch, drowning helplessly in the caress.

“May I?” Thomas asks finally, and James nods with his eyes still closed.

This time, when Thomas kisses him, he pulls him close, holds him tight, as if afraid Thomas will melt into the air. He returns the kiss with fire.

“I would like to take you to my bed,” Thomas whispers against his lips. 

“Yes,” he breathes without thinking; he merely knows there is nothing he would deny Thomas. “Yes,” and he follows where Thomas leads.

………..

In the sumptuous bedchamber, Thomas presses him against a wall, forceful and yet not _rough._ James goes willingly where Thomas puts him and returns yet another kiss. Thomas kisses like a sailor who hasn’t had fresh water in days, drinks in the taste of his lips as if they were honey and ambrosia, and it sparks a memory.

“My words aren’t honeyed,” he protests when Thomas breaks away to take a breath.

“I would beg to differ,” Thomas counters. “Clearly you’ve never heard yourself speak.”

James’ protest that it is quite impossible to hear _oneself_ speak is lost as Thomas begins to undress him and he does the same. When Thomas backs James up towards the bed and pushes him down onto it, James goes willingly. Then Thomas is above him, lips upon his neck, leaving kisses like a trail of stars on his skin, soft and bright and burning.

“I don’t have a map of the heavens on my skin,” he protests helplessly as Thomas’ mouth maps the planes of his body. The bruises upon his skin have faded to an ugly yellow, and it is these he thinks of, though Thomas has not noticed them yet.

Thomas lifts his head. His fingers trail softly over a smattering of freckles on James’ chest.

“You have freckles,” he says. “More numerous than the stars in the night sky, forming constellations that are their own map of the heavens. One that I would learn by heart and worship at.”

“You have never seen me unclothed,” he protests. “How could you know?”

“You rolled your sleeves up once, when we were working, and I saw them on your arms. There were several on your neck, too, when you loosened your cravat once due to the heat. From that, and the color of your hair, I deduced that they must cover your body entirely. I see I was not wrong.”

“You noticed all that?” he asks in wonderment.

“I noticed everything,” Thomas says, “and committed it all to memory, to carry with me and cherish in my heart.”

And he can’t, he just can’t. He had heard that love could hurt, but not like this. Why did it hurt like this, when he was supposed to be so _happy_? He had what he wanted, Thomas in his arms, loving – _devoted,_ and yet tears spring to his eyes rather than a smile.

He pushes Thomas away softly, turns away and sits up on the bed. Before he notices it, silent sobs wrack his body while tears leave salty trails on his cheeks.

“James?” Thomas sits beside him, but no comforting touch accompanies his words. “Have I done something wrong?” Worry laces Thomas’ tone, and he cannot bear to be the source of it, but neither can he voice what ails him, because he hardly knows himself.

He only shakes his head, and looks helplessly at Thomas. His beautiful brow is furrowed in worry, his eyes focused on James like he is the only fixed thing in a shifting world.

“What is it?” Thomas asks, his voice softer than soft, and James wishes he had Thomas’ way with words, his ability to transform thoughts, capricious and insubstantial, into the firmness of language.

He clasps his hands together, his thumbs trailing over his own calloused palms, his work-hardened fingers. “I am not made for poetry,” he confesses. “No one has ever believed otherwise. It’s never been -like _this,”_ he tries valiantly to explain, and he wishes he had words for what _this_ was. Intimate, loving, beautiful, perfect, all of those but also _more._ A love that consumes his entire essence, and yet that purifies rather than destroying, that makes him _more,_ not less.

But Thomas seems to understand, in the way that his eyes fill with sadness. Not pity, but a deep, deep melancholy at the thought James struggles to express.

Wordlessly, Thomas takes James into his arms, and James weeps helplessly into his shoulder. His tears leave silver trails on Thomas’ perfect skin as Thomas strokes a loving hand through his hair. Fire-kissed, Thomas had called it, as if James were something beautiful, and he weeps yet more.

“I’m sorry,” he offers finally, when the store of tears inside him has been emptied – for now. Both his and Thomas’ arousal have long faded, leaving them in their nakedness; they do not shiver only due to the warmth of the chamber, its fires carefully stoked by Thomas numerous servants before they retired. But he has a talented tongue and a will, and he can make this good for Thomas yet. “Let me make it up to you,” he says.

“James.” Thomas catches his hand as James reaches for him. “You do not owe me anything, and there is nothing to make up for.”

“I want to make you feel good,” James says, because it’s true. “Just tell me how you want me.”

“How I want you? I wish you willing, James. In the deepest sense of that word,” he adds, before James has a chance to protest that he is _willing_ ; Thomas has only to command. “I do not want those things that you merely feel compelled to give. What do _you_ want?” he asks.

Words desert him. Instead, a series of images flashes through his mind. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come.

Thomas reaches for James’ hand, understanding in his eyes. “I had hoped, when I asked you to my bed, that we might make love. But if you are not ready or willing, then perhaps I will can be lucky enough to fall asleep in your loving embrace.”

Relief that he does not completely understand courses through James. He gathers Thomas up into his arms, drowns him in a kiss and pulls them down to the bed. Thomas shifts and snuggles against his chest contentedly as James covers them with a blanket. He reaches for James’ hand and kisses it.

“I will wait as long as necessary, until you are ready,” he says.

…..

James wakes to a feather-light touch on his skin. Opening his eyes, he finds it is Thomas’ fingers that caress him – that gently trace the bruises upon his hips. When James raises his eyes to meet Thomas’, sadness lines his features.

James looks away. It is not the intensity of Thomas’ gaze that he cannot bear; it is the sadness in his eyes.

“Who did this to you?” Thomas asks.

“I wanted it,” James says.

“James – “ Thomas begins, but he cannot. He simply _cannot_ have this conversation now. This is all still too new, too raw. Thomas here, beside him; Thomas kissing him, telling James he was made for poetry. Thomas’ love is pure and transcendent, and James cannot burden him with this.

He turns back to Thomas.

“Don’t,” he pleads. “Please.”

Thomas quiets, though he doesn’t look too happy about it.

Thomas stays true to his word. They sleep together, more often than not, but Thomas never presses, his lips never asking for anything more than chaste kisses. He brings their lips together, and when they part for breath, Thomas remains still, touching James’ forehead with his own. Many a time, James is tempted to draw Thomas close, to lower him onto the bed and follow through with this, but each time, his courage gives way before the final step.

When they wake together, Thomas looks so happy and peaceful James is drawn to kiss him, but though he feels the hardening of Thomas’ cock in response, Thomas makes no move, no demand, asks for nothing more.

Instead of lovemaking, they pass the hours in their bed with reading. James rests his head upon Thomas’ chest, his lover’s fingers trailing through the locks of his hair while his other hand holds open a book. Many a night, James falls asleep to Thomas’ soothing voice, and many a morning is whiled away as James lies blissfully in the sunlight, listening to Thomas’ voice like a lone symphony.

It takes Thomas two weeks to read James all of _Meditations_ , and in all those hours, Thomas shows no anger, no impatience, no frustration that James cannot give him more. Nothing but joy fills his eyes when he looks at James, nothing but light when they break apart from their kisses.

It seems that James is enough for him like this, and James wants _more_ , but the gutter is no place for Thomas.

…..

They are kissing, soft and sweet at first but then more demanding and passionate. Thomas’ hand on his neck trails down, over his chest and down….down. It feels so good, and he wants it, but…

He pushes Thomas’ hand away, and Thomas goes, immediately obedient.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I got carried away. I promised that I would not do anything you do not want, and I would keep my word.”

“I know you do not want the things I do,” James says. “You don’t have to do this.”

Thomas looks at him with furrowed brow.

“But I do want them,” he says. “I want to share this with you.”

James squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks of himself, on his knees, another man’s cock so far down his throat that it choked him, bent over with his legs spread like a whore as another man split him open, bruises covering his body, the stares of other men and his own desperate need. He pushes himself away from Thomas, towards the edge of the bed.

“My desires are and loathsome and shameful,” he says. “You cannot possibly share them.”

“There is no shame in any of this,” Thomas says insistently. He sits up, suddenly passionate in a way that is entirely cerebral; his bodily needs lie forgotten at the lure of a well-crafted argument. “The only shame lies in calling loathsome and profane that which is beautiful, and good, and pure, as our love is. I know your love for me is nothing less than _good,_ the very shape of it, ἡ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ ἰδέα, and so nothing but good can come of its manifestation, for nothing that is good is against nature.”

James sits back on his heels in the bed. They have entered full force into a Platonic dialogue, with Thomas casting himself as Socrates. James fights valiantly, but Thomas meets each thrust with skillful parry. He has always been good at this, has always been able to convince James with soft honeyed words. Thomas has built him palaces out of words, beautiful castles that glimmer among the stars. This is how they fell in love with each other, these battles of wits that do not bring destruction but rather creation.

“It is not my love for you that brings me shame,” James says. “You are nothing but good, and pure, and beautiful, and to love you is a gift. It is the things that I desire that bring me shame.”

Thomas sighs.

“You really must take me off the pedestal you have put me on, James,” he says. “Do you think I do not feel the things you do, the need and want and pleasure? That the sight and touch of another man do not cause my body to stir with desire?”

James does not meet his eyes, playing with the edge of the blanket.

“They call it a crime against nature,” he offers quietly.

“A man who forces himself on one unwilling, a being incapable of pity or mercy - that is against nature,” Thomas says. “But not the love in your heart, nor the desires of your body, or any act that satisfies either or both. The only shame is that which you bring from the world of men who are too blind to see, who permit injustice, justify cruelty, and then call shame a love that is pure and good. And our love is good and pure. And as our bodies are but a way to express that love, their union but a reflection of the link between our hearts and souls. I want to love you, James, to make _love_ to you. I want to give you pleasure. To take you in my mouth, to make you gasp and cry out, to bring you climax and make you say my name in your ecstasy, to share in that joy and feel my own pleasure from giving you yours. To see myself reflected in your eyes, and be with you as one. Do those things make you love me any less?”

James stares at him. “No, of course not,” he says.

The world Thomas builds with his words is an alien one to James. He understands the meaning of Thomas’ words, but they describe a reality he has no knowledge of, one that exists somewhere distant from the one he inhabits.

He longs, suddenly, very much, to see that world that Thomas has painted with his words.

He drops his gaze.

“Fuck me,” James says, very, very quietly.

Thomas reaches for him, a gentle hand upon his wrist.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

James nods wordlessly.

“Lie down for me,” Thomas says.

James spreads his legs obediently for Thomas to settle between them.

Thomas’ hand tangles in his hair, and he parts his lips instinctively, but Thomas only gives a gentle tug, exposing the column of his throat. His lips kiss the vulnerable, exposed line of it, teasing at the hollow of his throat.

Thomas kisses a trail across his chest, slow and patient, as if mapping its grooves and plains. Where his lips do not touch, his hands do. They travel down, a slow exploration, and James lets his eyes flutter closed, relishes being _known_ for the first time in his life.

Then he is enveloped by hot, wet, heat. Thomas’ mouth around his cock, he realizes, and freezes.

Thomas pulls off and meets James’ eyes with a wicked smile that makes James’ breath freeze in his lungs.

Then Thomas swallows him down again, licking and sucking with an abandon that would have made James lose his mind if he was still in possession of it.

Thomas pulls off, giving him a blessed reprieve. “Don’t move,” he instructs, and James feels the shift of the mattress, Thomas’ soft steps and the opening and closing of a drawer. Then Thomas settles between his legs again. A slow, gentle finger is inserted.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” Thomas says, and James opens his mouth to reply, but then Thomas’ finger twists and presses, and his mouth finds James’ cock again, and James’ words scatter like leaves in the wind.

When, finally, after several long and excruciating minutes of pleasure, Thomas enters him, James lets out a cry of ecstasy, for he has been fucked by men before, but it is nothing like being fucked by Thomas.

There is being fucked, and then there is – having the love of his life inside him, filling his body as that love fills his spirit.

For a moment, he forgets shame, because Thomas consumes his entire being.

Mere minutes later, he climaxes with another cry and a sense of rapture.

…..

James pins his wrists at each side of his head; their hands meet, palm-to-palm, and he presses them down to the mattress meaningfully. A holy palmers’ kiss, Thomas thinks, and smiles.

“What?” James asks with just the slightest hint of wariness.

“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do,” Thomas offers.

“Gladly,” James says, and bends down to purge the sin from Thomas’ lips with his own. Those lips continue their devotion all over Thomas’ body, and though Thomas tries, his hands cannot remain still. They seek purchase on James’ body, tangle in his hair as James’ lips begin to worship at his cock.

James lifts his head and Thomas groans. Then, before he knows it’s happening, James has flipped him over, as easily as if he weighed nothing, and is now whispering dangerously into his ear.

“I told you to stay still.”

“You did no such thing,” Thomas protests, belligerent as always. “It was merely an _implication_ – “

“I shall have to punish you for your disobedience, of course,” James says, giving him a playful slap across the buttocks. It’s nowhere near hard enough to hurt – it’s rather a pleasant tickling sensation, James’ hand caressing him in an unexpected way – and he gasps in surprise.

He giggles, and James seems to take that encouragement. He lands another slap, light as the first – Thomas realizes that James is likely incapable of hitting him with any amount of actual force.

“Oh, mercy!” he cries out playfully, as James’ hand continues to land softly on his buttocks. “Mercy, I beg you! I cannot bear it, no more, please, I will do anything!”

James pauses. Thomas holds his breath. He is rolled over, with James atop him, laughing, a glorious, gorgeous sound, and their lips meet again.

“Anything, my lord?” James asks.

“Anything you want,” Thomas says with gravity. “You know there is nothing I would deny you. What is it you would have?”

James does not meet his eyes.

“It is shameful,” he says. 

“James,” Thomas says gently. “There is nothing you could ask of me that I would find shameful. You know this.”

“Even if I asked to be inside you? To – “ he falters, then seems to find the courage to phrase his desire sin the filthiest words he can find, as if that will convince Thomas of the shamefulness of the act. “To fuck you, to satisfy myself in such a way?”

“Yes, if that is what you desire,” Thomas answers. “It is, is it not?” he asks softly, knowingly.

James drags his pained gaze to Thomas’.

“How can agree to be _demeaned_ like that?” he asks, turmoil in his eyes like the frothing sea. “By one of my birth?”

“What has your birth to do with it?”

“Everything!”

“So if I fucked you, would it be more permissible? Shameful still, but less so?” James doesn’t answer, so Thomas presses on. “That assumption rests upon the premise that there is something inherent in me that is better, that is of more _worth,_ by virtue of my birth, and I would not presume to assume that. I know this. _You_ know this.”

They have never spoken much of this – divide – between them. There are moments when it has been patently, painfully visible – in the way James had been surprised by the taste of cinnamon and spices at Thomas’ table, the way he stared in awe at Thomas’ library the first time, the way his reaction to cold had been to don his coat rather than ask for more wood to be added to the fire. They have danced around the more obvious fact that Thomas is the heir of an earl and James is the son of a carpenter’s mate. But for all his awareness of the distance between them, James had never shown anything but stubborn, bullheaded pride in his own ability, the force of his arguments, the caliber of his own mind. Thomas had found it refreshing, for a man’s estimation of his own worth to match that worth.

And yet, in matters of the heart, and more so of the body, James is timid as a virgin bride, alternatively ignorant or ashamed.

“You know my greatest wish is to remake the New World, to forge a place where men succeed through merit rather than birth. Where it is a man’s worth that matters. That is my ideal, James, and in such a world, you would be king.”

Thomas leans forward to kiss him. It sparks a fire inside him, the meeting of their lips, that travels down to his cock. Thomas grasps James’ hand and places it over that hardness.

“I would have you inside me,” Thomas whispers against James’ lips. “See how the bare thought of it arouses me. Fuck me, James.”

He draws back, spreads his legs enticingly as he leans against the headboard. “Fuck me,” he says again.

James reaches for the oil they keep in the bedroom. Hesitant, unsure, he kneels nevertheless between Thomas’ legs, slicks his fingers and inserts one.

He makes it to three fingers before his eyes skitter to Thomas’, uncertain. Thomas wants _more,_ but James’ eyes grasp helplessly for purchase on Thomas’, begging instruction.

“Lie down,” Thomas says.

“What for?”

“Because I want to ride your cock,” Thomas says.

James chokes on air. He stares at Thomas.

Thomas waits patiently for James to process the idea. “I want to ride your cock, James,” Thomas continues, relishing each word. “I want you inside me. Will you allow me?”

James swallows and nods. They clamber over each other, James lying back as Thomas mounts him. He takes the oil from James, opening himself with a fourth finger before sinking down slowly on James’ cock. He meets his eyes as he does so. They are wide, awestruck, his mouth parted in equal surprise.

“Oh God,” James breathes when Thomas has seated himself.

Thomas begins to move, slow, sensual strokes. He himself wants to go harder, faster, wants to be _fucked_ by James’ cock, but James seems overwhelmed by every sensation, and so Thomas slows to a sensual glide. He makes use of every trick he knows, lifting almost entirely off James before sinking down completely again, squeezing around him, relishing the helpless sounds that fall from James’ lips.

He finds one of James’ hands – fisted in the sheets – and brings it to his own cock, hard and desperate and leaking.

“Look what this does to me,” he says. “Look what _you_ do to me, inside me. I want this, I _need_ it.”

He feels James’ cock jerk inside of him – at his words or the feel of his own hardness, he does not know; either or both suffice, he supposes.

“I could come just from this,” Thomas continues. “Just from you inside me.”

“ _Thomas,”_ James croaks.

He places James’ hands on his hips as he continues to ride James slowly, enticingly.

“Make me come, James,” he says.

And James does. James grips his hips, forcing Thomas down onto his cock as he tilts up his own hips, filling Thomas as far as he can go. It’s fast and rough and dirty and so, so good; each thrust, he thinks, might split him open, and it builds inside him. His cock begs for touch, but he resists, because that denial, too, is so, so good, and it builds, and builds until he clenches around James’ cock and comes, spilling hot seed over the firm planes of James’ stomach.

When he comes back to himself, James is still, but shaking, every muscle tensed, the fingers at his hips digging into his skin.

“Thomas, I can’t- “ James whispers. “I need – “ 

“Yes, love,” Thomas says. “Come inside me.”

James thrusts inside him several times more – a kind of beautiful agony, and he feels sore and full, and his cock wants to react but can’t, and then James throws his head back and moans. His cock pulses inside Thomas, filling him with seed, as Thomas watches. He is gorgeous like this, his russet locks spread like a starburst around his head, the delicate line of his throat exposed as his head is thrown back. He looks more vulnerable than Thomas has ever seen him, allowing himself to feel, beautiful sounds falling unchecked from his lips, all inhibitions lost to his pleasure.

Shameless.

When James relaxes back into the bed, Thomas climbs off of him. His muscles, so long in one position, protest, but it is a kind of satisfying discomfort. He wants to curl up next to James, but he must do one thing first.

Propping himself on an elbow, he kisses James, who returns it vigorously.

“Thank you,” Thomas says. “This was everything that I wanted. It was perfect.”

James smiles, slightly bashful but happy, and Thomas too fills with joy.

“I want you to remember those words when you wake tomorrow,” he adds. When James wakes and doubts again.

He wakes to a coldness he is unaccustomed to, the warmth of James’ body he had expected behind him missing. Instead, he can feel James’ eyes upon him from afar, as James sits on the other end of the bed, guilt lining his features.

“I hurt you,” is the first thing he says.

Thomas looks down. The imprints of James’ hands upon his hips have blossomed into bruises, which is what James has his eyes fixed on.

Thomas rouses himself and climbs into James lap’. James’ hands flutter like butterflies, afraid to land, but Thomas is focused on James’ face, which he cradles in his hands.

“Do you remember what I said to you last night?” he asks.

“Yes,” James says quietly.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say the words I said to you last night.”

“Thank you,” James repeats obediently. “This was everything I wanted.” He is quiet for the space of a heartbeat, then he adds, equal parts uncertainty and hope: “It was perfect.” His voice cracks on the last word.

“It was perfect,” Thomas repeats, brushing the tears from James’ eyes.

James’ hands finally land upon his skin, holding him close as they kiss.

…..

“I’m not master of the elements,” James protests helplessly. At the moment, he is master of nothing at all, not even himself. Thomas’ talented lips are taking him apart again. He is spread on the bed, helpless moans tumbling from his lips. He had tried to grab Thomas’ head, to guide his mouth where he wanted it, where he _need_ it, but Thomas had pressed his hands down on either side of his head. His own palms had met James’ on each side of his head, and though James could easily escape the restraint, he takes the hint and keeps his hands where Thomas has put them even as Thomas proceeds to take him apart.

Thomas lifts his mouth from where it surrounds James’ cock, and he regrets his curiosity instantly. He moans helplessly. But Thomas merely replaces his mouth with his hand, continues his languid stroking of James’ cock as he lies down alongside him.

“But you are,” he says with a self-satisfied smile. “On a ship, you harness the power of the wind, of the air itself, to take you where you wish to go. Whichever way it blows, there is a way to master it. The water, too, is your domain; it has claimed the lives of men, flooded cities, nearly wiped out civilization, and yet with nothing but a handful of planks and cloth, you cross its great expanses. I could not imagine it, to stand on mere planks of wood, nothing but hostile water for miles on end, no refuge, no rescue. And yet you do it fearlessly, with nary a thought to how helpless you are.”

“Sometimes I am helpless,” James points out. “Haven’t you heard of the doldrums? Or when the sea gets a mind of its own, and batters my ship with tempests? Men have lost their lives; hell, _I_ nearly went overboard once. I could be lying dead at the bottom of the ocean right now but for blind luck.”

Thomas’ hand stills.

“But you survived,” he insists, a little desperately perhaps. “Neither water nor air has touched you. I’ve heard you speak of ships – you know them as if they were your second soul, you know how to manage them and coax them such that they survive both. Your mind is quick and clever. I have no doubt you could guide a ship through the heart of a tempest with your will and your mind.”

“You give me entirely too much credit,” James scoffs. “And what of earth?”

“My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground,” Thomas recites.

“Shakespeare?” James recognizes.

“Yes. But I think of you more highly than Shakespeare did of his Dark Lady. When you walk, it is as if the Earth belongs to you in its entirety. Even when you are at sea, on a rocking ship, I imagine you steadfast and immovable.”

“And fire? Surely you know I can’t control that.”

“You can. You have a fire in your soul, that burns more brightly than any I have ever seen. I have seen it roar to life, once or twice, and I can only fathom the force of it, but you keep it tamed with the strength of your will.”

“I fear it sometimes,” James confesses. “If anything ever happened – if I lost – “ he can’t even say it, can’t contemplate the horrendous possibility of it. “I think that fire would know no bounds,” he admits. “My will would be broken, and I would not be able to hold that fire back from annihilating the world.”

Thomas leans forward to kiss him, deep and sweet.

“Then I shall never leave you, for the sake of the rest of the world,” Thomas says.

….

Ten years later, James walks across the virgin earth, tilled and teeming with life below the hands of Thomas Hamilton. He falls into Thomas’ embrace, but the flame and fury of which Captain Flint was born do not subside. They are contained merely within the embrace of his golden god.

But Thomas must _know_ ; the man who built him a pedestal of words must know what he has become; must know the fire that roared to life when he was taken to Bethlem Royal Hospital, must know that when a fateful letter came to Nassau, offered to him by Miranda’s shaking hand, Captain Flint had set the sea afire and scorched the earth. So he urges Thomas into the privacy of the now-empty living quarters and kneels before him.

“I must tell you what I have done in your name,” he offers – a confession.

But Thomas is calm. “You told me once that if I was taken from you, the fire within your soul would know no bounds. You believed me dead, so I imagine that you razed the world in a holocaust of fire and flood.”

“To remake it anew from the ashes, in your image,” he explains.

Thomas had built a world of words in his image, but no words did Thomas Hamilton justice, so James had tried to reshape reality itself into his form.

Two creators, molding such different clay.


End file.
